Sore Throats
by kindlesprite
Summary: After an abrupt withdrawal from his friends with no explanation, Clyde is determined to find out why Craig is trying so hard to disappear from their lives. Being found by Clyde throwing up during lunch in the school bathroom, Craig's life in thrown for a loop as he is forced to face the very real consequences of his eating disorder.
1. CH 1, Clyde Donovan: Pizza Night

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading.**

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><p><strong>Clyde's POV:<strong>

"Hn." I let out a grunt, dropping my dead weights back onto the equipment bench. I've been doing a good job with using the gym lately. Having Craig as a work out partner motivates me.

Baseball season is starting soon, and after waiting through my freshman and sophomore years of high school I finally have been okayed for the South Park varsity team. I'm proud, to say the least, but now I have to live up to their expectations.

"Shit." I say to myself, wiping sweat off my forehead and waving to Craig, who is zoned out to his IPod on one of the treadmills.

Craig goes hard when he works out – using the cardio equipment from the second we arrive until I have to practically force him off so we can go home.

When is becomes apparent that he hasn't seen me, I shout "Hey!" and he looks over. Without popping his earbuds he holds up a hand, asking for five more minutes.

I shrug, and watch as he taps the speed button a few times and begins to sprint.

Bending down and drinking from one of the water fountains, I see my reflection flash in the mirror perpendicular to where I'm standing.

I look up, brushing the messy mop of hair out of my face and examining the definition I'm starting to gain in my arms. I look better than I have in years. I pull my sweat soaked t-shirt up and over my head, dropping it onto the floor as I touch my stomach, kneading the muscle that it now shows.

"I'm ready."

I spin around to see Craig, looking disgruntled and sipping out of his water bottle.

"Sorry." I say, picking my shirt up off the floor, "I didn't see you finish up."

He waves dismissively and turns towards the gym's double doors. I tell the woman at the reception desk thank you and goodbye, and then follow Craig down into the parking garage below the building.

He's standing on the passenger side of my car, looking pissed and pinching at his hips.

I walk up to my mom's old 4Runner and hit the "unlock" button, opening the door. "Dude, you alright?" I asked as I adjust my seat and Craig slips into the car.

"Fine." He says curtly.

"How was your run?" I say, tossing my shirt into the backseat along with my towel and water, and then starting the car. It's not unusual for Craig to be in a shitty mood after a workout. I think he pushes himself too hard.

"I could have kept going." He leans back in the chair, picking at his hips again.

"Hey man, knock that shit off—" I reach over blindly and swat at his hand as I pull up the ramp and onto the street, "It's fucking weird when you do that."

"Sorry." He says gruffly as he pulls his hand out of reach and stuffs it into his pocket.

Reaching into my own pocket, I grab my phone and toss it onto Craig's lap. "Can you check my messages for me? We're supposed to meet Tweek and Token."

He swipes his thumb across the screen and taps the little green speech bubble icon.

"They're at the pizza place by my house." He says, setting it up on the dashboard.

"Sweet. I'm really hungry after that workout." I smiled, stepping on the gas a little. There are no cars on the road. There are never any cars on the road in South Park.

I see Craig make a twisted face out of the corner of my eye, but he says nothing.

When we pull up to the restaurant, I park right in front. I can see Tweek and Token chatting on the other side of the large glass window.

I slip a clean new shirt on and we get out of the car. I leave it unlocked; we'll be sitting right within viewing distance anyway. Craig opens the heavy wooden door and gestures for me to hurry up. It's still early spring in Colorado and it's freezing outside in gym shorts.

Rubbing my hands together for warmth, I drop down next to Tweek who lets out a startled "Gah!" and Craig joins Token on the other side of the booth.

"Hey guys." Token says, raising his hand as a hello, "Did you just finish at the gym?"

"Yeah," I laugh, "Why, do we smell?"

"Ah—a little!" Tweek smiles, quivering in his seat.

"We just ordered two mediums." Token waves to the waitress, who brings over two glasses of water for Craig and I, "I hope that's alright."

"That's perfect." I take a swig of my water, "So what do you guys think? Am I looking good for baseball season?"

"Y-yeah!" Tweek stammers out, "They were idiots not to take you before."

Token gives me a quick glance over, "You're looking really healthy." He smiles, "You really kicked it into high gear."

"Had to." I smile, "If I didn't whip my ass into shape, they were going to do it for me."

Token chuckles, and our waitress reaches down in front of us to place a metal rack on the table.

"Careful." She says, setting the pies down, "They're straight from the oven."

I have a hard time controlling myself, and grab a piece right away, burning my fingers. Tweek and Token wait until it stops steaming, but by the time it does I'm already on my second slice. Craig waits a while longer, drinking all of his water, refilling it, drinking all of that, reaching for a slice, then changing his mind, before he finally grabs a piece of the pepperoni and takes a bite.

Between the four of us we finish everything. I ended up eating three slices, because I'm always starving after I weight lift. Tweek had two, I know because he always eats slowly and with a fork and knife. He says if he doesn't that he ends up throwing his food. I don't know how much Token had, but I'm pretty sure Craig is on his 5th piece. He always acts so reluctant to start, but once he does he can really pack it away.

When we finish, he drinks three more glasses of water and looks like he might be sick.

We split the check four ways, and I cover Craig's quarter of the bill because he lets me piggy back off of his gym membership. Token says that he has to get home to finish an essay, and Tweek has to get to his evening work shift at Harbucks, so we all head out and I drive Craig home.

"See you at school tomorrow." I tell him as we pull up to his house only a few blocks away.

"See ya." He says briskly, before grabbing his stuff from my backseat and rushing off into his house.

I stare after him, watching as he slams the door behind him before I drive away. He's been running off a lot lately.


	2. CH 2, Craig Tucker: B&P

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading.**

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><p><strong>Craig's POV:<strong>

I waste no time scrambling through my house after I slam and lock my front door, tossing my workout bag onto the floor. My parents aren't home, so I don't even bother shutting the bathroom door.

I kneel to the floor in front of the toilet and jam my fingers as far down my throat as I can manage. I gag, and pull my hand back out, dry heaving. When nothing comes up, I feel my chest tighten as my anxiety begins to rise.

_You have to try again_.

This time, I place a hand on my abdomen, and take a gulping swallow of air, forcing it into my stomach. The contents of my gut shift, and I immediately feel queasy. I shove my fingers down my throat again, pushing the air out of my body. Finally, I vomit. Hard.

_That's not enough_.

I try again, pulling up my sleeve as stomach acid and chunks of crust come rolling out of my body and onto my hand.

_You did it again._

As I choke, I let out a soft sob, and empty what I hope are the rest of my stomach's contents into the toilet. This is why I drink so much water.

_You're so weak._

I stand up slowly, my throat burning and eyes bleary. I sniff. My nose always runs when I throw up.

The bathroom smells rancid. I flush the toilet once, and then twice just in case. Turning on the sink tap, I rinse both my hands and then my mouth, before grabbing the Listerine from our medicine cabinet. The alcohol lights my throat on fire and I spit it out before I can even rinse, cupping my hands for a quick drink of water.

I look in the mirror. My eyes are red from the forceful retching, and I have bags the size of quarters. My friends say I don't sleep enough, but I think it's because I sleep too much. Staring disdainfully at my reflection, I take the clementine scented odor-reducer off the back of the sink and use it to mask the mess that this was.

Afterwards, I retreat to my room, yanking out a scale from underneath my bed. This one is new. My parents took the last one.

Setting it on the floor by my bed, I pull my shirt over my head. I slowly step on, and watch as the numbers click to 155.

I feel my skin begin to prickle as I look down at the number.

"God fucking—" I kick the scale angrily and slam my body down onto my bed, staring at the ceiling.

_What's wrong with you? Why did you eat all of that? You should have told yourself no. They won't say anything. They won't notice. You did it because you're not in control. Not of yourself, not of anything. How can you expect anything to go how it's supposed to if you can't even do this right?_

I feel a lump rising in my throat, and I sit up, forcing my head between my legs.

"It's okay, I'm okay. You'll do better tomorrow." I tell myself, smoothing my hair forward, "Once you do better, you won't have to throw up anymore."

"Damnit." I whisper to myself, still cradling my head in my lap. I've been at this for over a year, and every single pound I manage to lose I gain right back.

I know why it happens that way – I can't control myself. Clyde or my parents or someone puts food in front of me and it's like my brain turns off. Most of the time I'm not even fully present, but I have to finish everything right then. I eat so fast that I don't even taste what I'm putting in my body.

When my mom goes out shopping I have to eat everything that's pre-made the very first day, just to insure that I don't have access to it later. She gets angry with me for it, but I don't know what I'm doing until someone is practically pulling me away from whatever I'm ingesting.

If someone sticks me near a bag of chips at a party, I will finish all of them. I eat until I'm so full I feel like I might explode, then I take over the bathroom and pretend that I drank too much.

Sometimes I do drink too much.

I drink to fit in and then I drink more to throw up. If the party is particularly bad and I start to feel anxious, the surging in my stomach is a comforting feeling.

I feel so damn guilty when I'm done.

Looking my friends in the eye and making normal conversation after leaving the bathroom is difficult, and with my parents it's near impossible. They stare at me and ask me how it's going or what kind of day I'm having and I have to pretend that I wasn't just wrist deep in my own puke. I'm not good at faking it, I never have been.

Instead I just avoid them.

I've been caught before, a few times at school and by Ruby at home, but it's not hard to pass off as just a regular stomach-bug. After all, it's not like I've lost any weight.

My mom does get worried though, and my dad does too, but not about what I was scared they would. They see how much I put into my body and get nervous that I have no self-control.

_They're right though._ I think angrily.

It only makes me feel worse when they call me out, so most of the time I'll eat when they're not home or I'm in my room. I'm able to keep my habits to myself for the most part. It's only when we all sit down for a family dinner or we go out that things get out of hand.

That's why they paid for the gym membership that Clyde and I use. They told me I should be careful with what I eat. I immediately gave them both a huge _fuck you_, but afterwards I cried like a baby.

It scared the hell out of me.

I glance at the clock, and seeing that it's only six, I decide to go for another run to balance out my body and my dinner. Homework will have to wait.


	3. CH 3, Clyde Donovan: It Goes Down Hard

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading.**

**Thank you for the lovely reviews everyone!**

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><p><strong>Clyde's POV:<strong>

My head is swimming and I'm already three shots deep by the time our classmates start showing up at Token's for the party we're throwing.

There's not much to do in South Park at our age, and this is how we celebrate making it through another week.

The past five days have been dull, to say the least. I'm in a slump with my schoolwork and I don't think I'm the only one. All I want to do is prep for spring sports. My grades are bad but I know that I want to go to college. I need to get out of this shithole of a town. Everyone else is feeling that too. There's nothing for me here.

I've known for a long time that the only way for me to leave has been either football or baseball. There are no academic scholarships smiling brightly on me. I don't know what my friends are thinking about university, but it's a little too early to ask. Even I don't have any logistics figured out. I just need to impress.

"Hey." I'm snapped back to reality as Stan greets me. Token must have just let him in.

"Hey," I return, "How's it going?"

"Pretty fucking shitty, as usual."

"Sorry." I say, but I don't know why I'm apologizing. That's just how I am.

"You want some?" I offer, holding up the rum and coke that I'm sipping at.

He nods, but says he wants tequila instead if we have it. The flirty drink. I'm not surprised. Stan hates our parties and we all know it. He gets too shy and makes a fool out of himself. Clumsily, I stand up and head over to the Black family's bar. They're always fully stocked, and don't care what we take as long as Token's grades stay high and they come home to a clean house.

"How's Wendy?" I ask after a brief pause. Stan's girlfriend has been abroad this entire year in Copenhagen and the two have been on and off every other week, leaving Stan a jittery, insecure mess. "She's still in Denmark, right?"

"It's fucking Sweden now, but we haven't talked since last Thursday," he tells me bitterly, "Something about needing to be on her own and finding herself."

I pour him one shot, and then another as he takes them in quick succession. When Stan is sober he's an angry drinker, and when he's not he's just sad. He and I both know that Wendy will come around. She always does, but that doesn't make him any more confident. Honestly, I think she's been using him as a crutch for a long time, but Stan just doesn't quite see it. He drinks most weekends and smokes a lot of weed to calm himself down, but really what he needs to do is just let her go.

Kyle wanders over briefly and I hand him a shot glass filled with the amber liquor, which he sips slowly. Kyle drinks his alcohol like juice.

"Is Kenny coming tonight?" I ask, although I already know the answer.

They both nod, and I take another sip of my drink. I can feel my buzz beginning to wear off. I'm a heavy weight and always have been.

Tweek, Token, and I started hanging out with their crew at the start of our sophomore year. Once they started to outgrow the jackass stunts they pulled as kids, we actually all got along pretty well. It's not exactly a big, cohesive group though because they don't like Craig and we really don't love Cartman, which is unfortunate because my loyalties go down hard with Craig. He and I have been best friends for almost our entire lives and nobody is about to change my opinion on him. I have more commitment to Craig than any girl I've ever been with. He may be a cynical asshole, but he's my cynical asshole. Old habits die hard.

I leave Stan and Kyle at the bar and wander around Token's mansion. More people have arrived and are starting to fill every corner of the house.

"Clyde—" I hear a shout from down the hall, "We're—gah—over here!"

I squeeze through the doorway past Annie and Red to see Tweek and Craig standing by the backdoor. He always comes late and sneaks in through the patio to the kitchen. He likes to come once everyone is already a little drunk, and says that being a member of the greeting party pisses him off.

I smile and sling my arm over Craig's shoulder, but he shrinks away a little – something he has always done. He's not a super physical guy.

"How's it going?" He asks, shrugging me off.

"Average." I admit, leaning into Tweek, who begins to shake.

Craig doesn't answer me, but looks a little dazed, and as I look at him I notice that his eyes are bloodshot.

"Hey man, are you high?"

"What?" Craig looks startled, "No!" He spits back at me.

"I was just asking!" I smirk and raise an eyebrow "Because you know if you have something good you've got to share. Stan's in a rut again and maybe this way you two would have something in common."

"I don't have anything, and besides, I hate that asshole." He seems uncomfortable, averting his eyes and shoving his hands into his pockets, so I stop prying.

"Either way, I'm glad you decided to come and be social."

"Thanks," he says, "I figured I should probably get out of the house."

I give him a few strong pats on the back and offer him my drink, which he declines. Instead, I hand it off to Tweek, who I know doesn't want it either but at least he'll get rid of it for me. Tweek has always been into harder drugs than the rest of us, and will usually forego any alcohol for a chance at snorting lines or taking a tab later. I have to hand it to him though – he's probably more responsible than the rest of us. At least he doesn't mix substances.

"I'm going to go find Token." Craig shyly excuses himself, finding his way towards the living room and slipping out of sight.

I stand quietly for a minute, enjoying the emptiness of the kitchen before Tweek abruptly spits out, "He's—ah—he's being weird!"

"Who? Craig?" I ask, glancing down the hall after him.

Tweek shakes his head ferociously before adding, "He didn't even say hello when he came in! He's been so–er—snappy!"

I smirk, "More so than usual?"

"No—No!" He stammers, and then looks confused, "I mean, yes! I—I'm not joking."

"Aw shit." I sigh, "Okay. I'll check on him. I mean, what's been going on?"

"I don't know! He's just not been much of a—erk—conversationalist. I mean, I know that he isn't usual—usually, but it's different now. I don't feel like he even has fun here anymore."

Tweek is right, but to be honest none of us turn up as hard as we used to. One too many sobbing, drunken messes had taught us that the point of alcohol was not necessarily to get as wasted as possible at every opportunity. Freshman and sophomore year had been crazy, and Craig especially had toned it down since coming back from this past summer vacation. He still drinks enough to end up vomiting at the end of every night though. Fucking light weight can't handle his liquor.

"Maybe he's just getting sick of this party scene." I shrug, but Tweek still looks worried, so I promise him that I'll keep an eye on Craig for the rest of the night.

He smiles, and tells me he would have done it himself, but he's brought a few tabs of acid along tonight and he plans on doing them with Kenny—who he actually still needs to find. Typical.

I wave him off, and he rushes into the living room. I follow behind him briefly, until I see Token standing in the doorway chatting with Bebe.

"Hey man," I saunter up to him, "Did Craig ever find you?"

"Is he here? I haven't seen him yet." He stares at me, clearly confused.

"He said he was going to look for you." I add, "Tweek and I were talking to him a while ago and after he left, Tweek said he felt like something was up. I promised I'd check in with him."

"I ran into Craig downstairs." Bebe helpfully chimes in, "He told me that he drank too much and was feeling sick. I think he's still in the bathroom down there. You probably do want to check on him."

"Drank too much?" I ask, puzzled. "We were with him barely a half hour ago. He was fine then."

Token lets out a quiet laugh, "You know how Craig is. Acting all stoic and then is drunk off his ass 10 minutes later."

"Yeah." I say nervously, "I'm going to go look for him."

It takes me a while to find the bathroom that Bebe was talking about in Token house. I've been here so many times but I feel like I'm always discovering new hallways. When I finally do find a room with a closed door, I open it slowly, just to make sure that I'm not interrupting anything.

"Hey buddy, are you in here?" I say softly.

I hear the flush of the toilet immediately, and I open the door the rest of the way to see Craig staring back at me, looking irritated.

"Bebe said that you drank too much." I can hear the concern rising in my voice, "And that I should check on you."

"Oh. Yeah." He says dryly, grabbing a piece of paper towel as he stand up, wiping his face.

"Do you want me to take you home?" I offer, "I'm probably sober enough now, or will be soon. You could go up to Token's room too."

"I don't want you driving me home when you've been drinking," he stares at me, his eyes dull, "You'll fucking kill us both."

This isn't drunk Craig. Drunk Craig is timid and sweet—and laughs at his own jokes. Drunk Craig makes decisions like riding his skateboard down main street at 3 a.m. and gets up smiling when he falls and skins his entire left side. Drunk Craig has no inhibitions.

"Craig—" I say tentatively, "Did you actually drink anything?"

"Yes." He hisses, "I took a couple shots before I came tonight. I couldn't deal with all these jackasses sober."

"Oh." I say softly, "Okay, well how do you feel about going up to Token's room and staying the night?"

Craig's face softens a little, and suddenly he looks exhausted.

"Yeah. I think that's a good idea." He whispers.

I come towards him and grab his hand, doing a quick sweep of the bathroom to check for any mess I might need to clean up later as I lead him out. Luckily, everything is still spotless. Craig is shockingly good at keeping things clean.

I take him up the stairs and wave quickly to Token and Bebe as we reach the main level. Once upstairs, I grab a few blankets from the hall closet as well as a couple pillows from Token's bed. He won't need them. He usually sleeps on the couch on nights like this just so that everyone can have a bed. I lay out a makeshift bed on the floor, and Craig quickly climbs underneath the blankets, not even bothering to take off his jeans.

I briefly consider going back downstairs, but it's already late and I'm tired. Instead, I whip off my sweatshirt and dig a pair of sweats out of Token's dresser, before finally crawling under the blankets next to Craig.

Our party nights at Token's frequently end like this, and it's completely normal for me and Craig to share a bed. We've been friends for so long, I feel completely comfortable. I roll over, engulfing him in my arms.

"Don't." He says suddenly, squirming away from me, and now I know with certainty that he is not drunk.


	4. CH 4, Craig Tucker: Melt

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading.**

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><p><strong>Craig's POV:<strong>

Clyde stuck to me like glue for the entire weekend. He drove me home Sunday morning and insisted that we nurse our hangovers together, then left to go buy popcorn and came back with his family's Netflix password.

Clyde is pushy, to say the least. He's pushy with food and movies and me most of all. I can't spend time with him anymore without feeling like I'm being monitored, which is hard because I get so frustrated when I don't mean to. I know it's not his fault, but when I eat in front of him I feel sicker than I normally do.

I told him that I had homework to do, and that he should go home, but we're in most of the same classes and he just said that we could get it done twice as fast if we worked through it together.

I didn't mean to be so sharp with him Saturday night at Token's. I was panicky and didn't want him to ask me any more questions. Clyde had never come in on me before, and I didn't know what he was thinking or what he had seen. I know he was worried because he wouldn't leave me alone, but he couldn't have been too worried because he wasn't being pushy, and he's _always_ pushy.

I let Clyde pick the movies we watched, because he generally has pretty good taste. We stayed under blankets and turned the lights off in my room, letting the glowing screen take over.

I didn't talk, and he never finished his English essay.

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><p>School on Monday is dreary. We're getting into the part of the year where it rains all day and the snow turns to slush in the road.<p>

My geometry teacher kills me. She's new and barely understands what she's teaching us. It makes me anxious just to watch her. The girl who sits next to me, Rosie, complains that I smell like cigarettes and I tell her I hope she bites it. She acts offended and hurt but never learns to just keep her mouth shut.

When our lunch hour finally rolls around my stomach is grumbling, but I ignore it. I didn't even pack a lunch today, because it's the best way to keep myself under control.

I walk to my locker, and shove my books inside as I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Come to the corner store with me!" I turn around to see Clyde, a dopey grin plastered on his face.

"Tweek didn't come in today, and Token is at that world club he's part of. It's just you and me today!" he explains, "Come on, don't make me walk by myself."

I sigh, and slam my locker with a quick kick to the door.

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><p>The market around the block from our school stresses me out. They don't sell anything but junk food, and just being there makes my skin crawl.<p>

As soon as we walk inside the sliding doors I start pressing my hand into my hip. Clyde gives me a disgruntled look, but I ignore him. When I'm feeling overwhelmed, being able to feel my hip bones is what lets me know that I'm okay.

He buys some chips and a sandwich, and then offers to get me something too if I'm hungry. I decline.

We go around the side of the school and sit on the street curb, where he pulls out a pack of cigarettes that I'm sure he bought from Kenny.

"You know you shouldn't smoke," I take the pack and light one for myself, "If you want a sports scholarship."

"You're probably right." He says disdainfully, but takes my advice and shoves the pack back into his pocket, "Want some chips?"

Clyde's always been so generous; I wish that I could appreciate it.

"They're so unhealthy." I shake my head tensely.

"There you go again—" Clyde frowns, "You ate an entire bag of these by yourself at my house last weekend."

I feel my stomach flip flop when he mentions one of my bad days.

"Also, you're smoking a cigarette you fucking hypocrite—" he teases, holding out the bag of chips again, "So get the hell off this health kick and eat a damn chip."

_No no no no no._

My head continues to scream at me as I offer him a curt smile, and take one of the vinegar chips from the bag.

"Good!" He laughs, tossing the bag to me.

"Have the rest, I'm finished with them."

I can't tell Clyde I don't want the chips, because I know that if I do he'll be weird about it. I force myself to keep it together.

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><p>Clyde and I walk to English together after lunch, and as we take our seats I feel myself getting anxious.<p>

I have to wait until the lesson starts, because that way I know nobody will be in the halls.

I glance nervously back and forth across the room until I meet eyes with Clyde, who smiles, and then turns away to get out the book we've been reading as a class. As soon as the bell rings I practically leap out of my seat, grabbing the hall pass before our teacher has the chance to notice.

Once in the first floor bathroom I briefly glance around at the other stalls, making sure they're empty before I head for the far left one. I flip the latch on the door, and brace myself with one hand against the side of the stall before slipping two fingers into my mouth.

At first I don't even gag. My reflex has been so stifled that lately I've had to push my body harder and harder. My chest has started to hurt when I try, which scares me, but not as much as not trying.

I reach farther into my throat, until my body starts heaving.

"Craig!" There's a shout, followed by the sound of someone slamming into the stall door behind me.

I spin around, panicked.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" says the voice again, "_Get the hell out of there_."

"Nothing!" I stammer out, "Leave me alone."

"Are you making yourself throw up?" They say cuttingly.

"No! I don't feel well!" I shout back angrily. I recognize the voice now. It's Clyde.

"Don't you fucking lie to me."

I go silent, and for the first time I don't know how to work my way out of the situation.

"I'm not going anywhere until you come out." Clyde spits, and when I don't respond he adds "I guess we're both missing class today."

Clyde isn't going to leave. Which means that his chips have to stay inside my body.

I begin to shake.

"Please leave." I say gingerly.

"No."

"God damnit Clyde, this isn't a fucking intervention."

"I don't give a shit what it is, but you are not coming out of there and walking past me without explaining yourself.

He doesn't understand. I don't want to leave. I just want him to go so that I can do what I have to in order to feel sane.

The shaking gets worse.

"Come out." Clyde says again, the anger in his voice rising.

"No!" I shout, finally breaking down into tears, "I can't!"

Clyde stays quiet as I try to choke down my sobs, but as I do it only becomes more uncontrollable. Everything is blurry and the only thing I can focus on is how I can't get away. I'm completely trapped, and I feel myself become more dizzy and short of breath by the second. I try desperately to find something to hold onto—to keep myself in control. I'm scared that if I don't I'll black out.

Suddenly, Clyde is reaching over the stall, standing on his tip toes and unlatching the door for me. He swings the door open and grabs me into his arms.

"No!" I cry—only feeling more claustrophobic—but he holds me tight and whispers _it's okay, try to calm down, you'll be okay _until finally, the thing I hold onto is him.


	5. CH 5, Clyde Donovan: Nothing New

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading.**

**Thank you for reading everyone, you're all such sweethearts!**

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><p><strong>Clyde's POV:<strong>

It's been a long time since Craig has had a panic attack.

They were a problem when we were in middle school, and again when we first got into high school. The surges hit him in waves, disappearing almost as quickly as they come, but Craig can almost never get them under wrap. That's why he's so fucking stoic all the time—he can't keep it together if he gets worked up.

His mind locks onto one thing: failing a class, losing his sister in a crowd, or in this case, being cornered by me. It all comes back to losing control of a situation. I feel bad for triggering him into this one, because I know it's my fault, but I wasn't about to just stand idly by.

I could have handled the situation more tactfully, but I think I just freaked out. I don't know how most people would react to walking in on their best friend purposefully puking in the school bathroom.

I wanted to scream at him—I wanted to shake him and ask what the hell he thought he was doing—I wanted to get up and walk out of the school with him and have the whole thing just go away.

But I didn't get the chance to, because some kid must have finally heard us and gone to alert a teacher.

Mostly I wanted to have noticed sooner.

I knew that something was funny with Craig's food intake the first weekend after school started this year, but I never said anything because it felt weird and intrusive. Honestly, I thought he was just emotionally eating at first. I assumed that there was an issue with Laura and Thomas, or maybe something bigger with his sister, Ruby, but when I stopped by the following week to check in and everything seemed to be alright I didn't pursue it any further. I blamed it on the heightened pressure of junior year, leaving room for the emotional distress that was really affecting my best friend to grow.

It's pretty clear now, as I'm explaining away the situation to the school counselor, that I made the wrong choice.

"It's fine." I assure him. He's insisted on bringing Craig and I into his office, but I know that the best thing for us right now it to just leave school.

He sighs, and I know that he's not expecting to get much more out of us.

"Just let me take him home."

Craig, who has just barely calmed down enough to hold it together, gives a desolate nod of agreement. He says nothing, dependent on me to navigate our way out of the situation for him.

Craig hates the school office, and always has. He says that sitting on the wooden benches outside the door reminds him of when he was a kid, and while his attitude may not have improved, he's gotten better at not being caught.

"Alright boys." the counselor looks disgruntled that he hasn't been able to extract even the smallest amount of information from us, but turns and begins to scribble on a sheet of paper.

"Clyde," he says, "I can excuse you for this next class period to take Craig home, but you'll need to come back before the end of the day."

I nod, but have no intention of returning to the school.

As we stand up to leave, the counselor hands me a stack of several pamphlets. I glance at them briefly, and seeing that they're a number of self-help sheets, I stuff them into my sweatshirt pocket.

"Thanks." I say bleakly, and he responds with _take care boys._

* * *

><p>Craig doesn't even look at me as we drive to his house, and I can't help but feel a little bit awkward.<p>

I still don't fully understand what's going on, and I know that Craig has no plan to share.

I'm not stupid, I know how to read the signs, and there aren't very many illnesses that look the way this one does, but I still want to give Craig the chance to explain and process the situation for himself.

"Hey." I say cautiously, keeping my eyes trained on the road. I see out of the corner Craig pulling his hat down by the braided flaps.

"You okay?"

"Fucking peachy." Craig says back bitterly.

I roll my eyes. I'm no pushover, and I have no intention of just letting this all go.

"Are you going to tell me what was going on in there?"

"No."

"I'm not just going to forget, you know."

"Oh I know."

The short, snappy answers are the last thing I can handle right now. Not after I just covered his ass so hard to the school. Not while I'm driving his sorry ass home.

I slam on the breaks, and Craig jolts forward in his seat, looking startled.

"Look. We're going to talk about this." I say sharply, "I care about you, and I need to know what's going on."

"There's nothing for you to know." Craig spits back at me, "I told you, I was just feeling sick."

I give him a look, and he pauses for a moment, before adding angrily and under his breath, "Clyde, shut up. I'm not doing this with you."

"Stop being such an asshole. I'm not an idiot."

Craig grabs the door handle, stepping out of the car, "Forget it then."

Damnit.

"What the hell Craig? You know that you can't walk home from here!" I roll the window down, letting the heat escape.

"No. Fuck you." He says simply, trudging through the snow in his too thin jacket and jeans.

God damnit.

"Get back in my car you jackass. I'm sorry, Jesus Christ, are you happy now?" I shout, driving slowly after him as he walks away.

Craig is such a manipulative asshole, and I can't help but buy into it but same way everyone else does. I know that I haven't done anything wrong, but to me it's not worth the fight.

Everything is worth it to Craig. He'll fight tooth and nail until he gets what he needs.

He stops, and begrudgingly opens the car door. He acts like he's doing me a favor, but I know that he doesn't actually want to walk home. It's his typical scare tactic. He knows that I won't leave him; I'm too worried he'll freeze, but he also knows that I don't want to waste my time trailing him the entire way home. It's a lose-lose situation, and I end up apologizing.

"Look," I say, picking up speed in the vehicle so that he couldn't jump out again if he wanted to, "I'm just worried about you."

"There's nothing to worry about."

I take a deep breath, "I know that you don't want anything to be wrong, but if this is what I think it is then you probably think about talking to someone and getting help."

"Don't say that. I don't want help." He says, prickling.

I sigh. Craig hates talking about problems, so I'm not surprised. He's the type of person that can't ever be put on the spot without tripping out.

I pull up to Craig's house, and he gives me a gruff goodbye as he slams the door to my car. As he heads inside, I realize that I still have the pile of self-help pamphlets in my pocket.

I pull them out, smoothing out the wrinkles in the papers before quickly flipping through them.

None of the writing is on eating disorders, no surprise there, but as I flip to the very end I notice that the counselor included a small sheet with several hotline numbers for gay youth.

Jesus Christ.


	6. CH 6, Craig Tucker: Food for Thought

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading. I would also like to add that this work is not pro mia in anyway whatsoever. If you personally are struggling, please feel free to contact me at any time and I will be happy to direct you to support sources.**

* * *

><p><strong>Craig's POV:<strong>

_You probably think about talking to someone and getting help._

Clyde's words echo in my mind as I stomp up the stairs and slam the door to my room. My new guinea pig, Scoot, let's out a sharp squeal.

_How fucking could he. Clyde is supposed to be the one who tells me that I'm okay—that there's nothing wrong and I don't need to worry._

I'm fuming—absolutely livid at the thought of Clyde trying to pass me off onto to someone I don't even know. Someone who thinks they can fix me by just talking at me. I stomp down on the heels of my tennis shoes, kicking them off angrily against the wall with a _thunk_.

_He's not who I should have to be worried about. He's supposed to back me up. _

My parents work late, and I'm glad they do. The last thing I need is a hovering adult. My mom isn't home until 9 on a good day, and my dad is gone until the a.m. hours. They both work hard, but there never seems to be enough money in our family. They tell me that I should find a job.

I know that my family could save on groceries if I could keep myself the fuck together whenever I walk past our pantry, but I never seem to be able to think about that until after the fact. I didn't care so much when I was younger, but my dad started telling me that I was eating them out of house and home.

He asked me once how I would feel being the fat one in the family.

I just blew him off for a long time, but I've grown up a lot since then.

I constantly ate alone, when my parents weren't home or when Ruby wasn't around, just to avoid being pestered. I always hated being told that I was eating too much, solely out of pure irritation, and it was just easier to make sure I was by myself than to deal with the constant hounding. I would come home from school and sit in the kitchen doing my homework and munching until someone finally came in the front door. It was so much easier to make it look like the culprit was me _and_ Ruby, as opposed to only me.

I would eat when Clyde was pissed at me, I would eat when I was struggling at our shit-hole of a high school, and I would eat when my parents fought. I never had a hard time finding an excuse. What I was doing felt so forbidden—like I was completely sticking it to anyone who ever crossed me.

My stomach still churns at how stupid I was.

Last spring, I was skipping English and came home early. When I walked in, my mom was at the kitchen table sobbing. She tried to pull herself together when she saw me, and didn't bother asking why I wasn't at school, but earlier that day she had been let go from her job. She told me that she didn't know how we were going to pay our heating bills through the rest of cold season.

Everything got more fucked up for me from there.

My mom found a new job, but I started to feel guilty—like I was lying and cheating my parents out of their money. I felt like complete shit, and I did what I had set myself up to do in order to cope with those feelings—eat. Not surprisingly, that just aggravated the situation. My dad was only more pissed off about the constantly disappearing fridge stock, and I was only more pissed off at myself. I couldn't control what I was putting into my body so I started controlling what would leave it and when instead. It wasn't very long before I couldn't control that either.

Nothing got any better.

I pull my hat off, and then my winter coat—tossing both articles onto my bed. Using my foot, I tug my scale out from underneath my bed. I almost never wear clothing when I weigh myself, because I want the lowest number possible.

I'm unsure of when my weight started to become a factor. I was a skinny kid, and I never worried about how I looked. I did put on a few pounds in high school, but I never felt bothered enough to lose them before. When I first started throwing up, I noticed my clothing starting to get a little loose, and it felt like just another affirmation that I was doing the right thing—so I bought a scale and started keeping track.

The weight loss stopped after a little while, and it left me even more desperate to continue. When I couldn't get the pounds to drop again, it was just another stressor.

The numbers on the scale click to 153, and I feel the unwelcome, excited tingle inside my chest.

I don't know why I do what I do. I don't want to overeat and I don't want to throw up, but I can't stop myself. It became a cheat—a way for me to cope with my stress without feeling like it was _really_ me who was literally stealing food from the mouths of my family. I always promise myself that I'll be better tomorrow, that it's just one more time, and that I'm tired of having swollen, puffy eyes and feeling disgusting. I tell myself that I'm over feeling dirty, and I'm done feeling worthless—that I'm sick of having a sore throat.

One last time has been every day lately.


	7. CH 7, Clyde Donovan: Rat

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading. I would also like to add that this work is not pro mia in anyway, whatsoever. If you personally are struggling, please feel free to contact me at any time and I will be happy to direct you to support resources.**

* * *

><p><strong>Clyde's POV:<strong>

He's been the only thing I can think about lately.

My classes have been even more of a mess than usual. I failed a history test Tuesday because I couldn't focus enough Monday night to crack open the text book. My grades are never very good, but this is the first time I didn't even try. Craig has been openly avoiding me and the rest of our gang—I know he's assuming that I have already let Token and Tweek in on what's been going on.

I thought about telling my parents—I thought about telling our friends—but in all honestly, I have told no one.

At this point, I'm unsure about whether or not it would be helpful. Craig takes his privacy seriously, and I know he would see me speaking up as ratting him out.

Wednesday morning, I'm exhausted. I stayed up all night researching the causes, signs, and symptoms of bulimia. The only reason I know the term is because of the nutrition segment of our health class the year previous, although they had never directed the information at us. I feel lied to. Our teacher told us it was a problem only girls had.

Even after hours of googling, I don't feel any closer to understanding what my best friend is experiencing. There are a few things I feel comfortable checking Craig off on: social isolation, need to be in control, difficulty expressing feelings—but the more I read the harder the time I have figuring it all out.

The first thing I can't wrap my mind around is his weight. Craig looks fine, and always has. He looks a little tired, but nothing beyond that. He's always been tired anyway. I read that sometimes people with bulimia don't really gain or lose weight at all, which in and of itself it confusing. Several articles explained to me that purging, which apparently is what the throwing up part of bulimia is called, rarely helps someone to get out all of what they've eaten—but if that's the case I don't understand why Craig started at all in the first place. The entire subject doesn't make sense to me.

I'm also having a hard time with the idea that every time Craig seemed reluctant to eat with me, and then eventually gave in, he was experiencing a very large part of the illness. It had been so easy for me to dismiss the overeating as simply 'teenage boy appetite', and I feel a pang in my chest every time I think about how oblivious I was.

As difficult as both those are, however, the continuously hardest parts of the whole situation are that I don't know what caused it, I don't know how long it's been going on, and I don't know how to fix it—especially on my own.

Craig has never once mentioned to me that he was concerned about his body, and I don't feel as though he has particularly low self-esteem. I've known him forever and if there was any trauma I would know about it by now, wouldn't I? Life in South Park is pretty stagnant, and I can't imagine that he's been going through any major life changes without telling me.

But with every explanation I read and explain away, I know that what I'm really doing is making excuses for being a horrible, unobservant friend.

I should have known. He was working out so diligently and going to the bathroom after every meal. I can't believe I didn't notice that he was throwing up at parties without even drinking.

I wish I had handled it differently. I wouldn't have barged in on him like that. I should have kept quiet and sat with him, holding his hands like we usually did when we got drunk together and discretely checked his nails for discoloration or his knuckles for scars. I ought to have noticed when his cheeks starting getting puffy or his eyes were turning red. It's unbelievable that I asked him if he was just high not even four days ago.

The more I read, the more pissed off I was at myself.

_You've been too caught up in your own business. You need to pay more attention to all the shit that's going on around you._ I tell myself angrily.

I feel guilty—like the entire situation is my fault.

_I should have noticed. _

_I should have been there._

_I should have stopped it all sooner._

I'm shaken free of my thoughts as I open the doors to the school and Red pushes past me, and turns around winking as a thanks for holding the entrance open for her. I can only scowl.

The next person I focus in on is Craig. He's standing at his locker, getting his books out for first period.

"Hey!" I shout, and he throws an apathetic glance at me over his shoulder.

"What?" He says unenergetically.

"We need to talk."

"There's nothing for us to talk about. I already told you." He slams his locker, bending to shove his books into his backpack.

"You've been ignoring my texts."

"You weren't saying anything important."

"That's not true." I lower my voice, "There's something real going on here and you know it."

"Nothing is wrong. Let it go." Craig hisses, "If you're so worried, I'll eat lunch with you today, okay? I'll prove to you that I'm alright. I told you—I was just feeling sick that day."

"That's not what I'm worried about." I say, matching his tone, "Look, I'm sorry that I didn't realize sooner, I—"

"Just leave it alone!" Craig shouts suddenly, and driving a finger into my chest he adds "It's none of your fucking business."

I take a step back, startled from his sudden outburst.

"I don't want you to be a part of this. Just fucking back off." He spits out poisonously, before picking up his bag and turning abruptly down the hall.

I stand there by the lockers, dumbfounded, before following dangerously closely behind him.

"I'm your best friend! How can you just tell me to leave it alone?" I had been hoping to have our conversation discretely, but Craig was making that all but impossible.

When he doesn't respond, I add in a short but strong emotional outburst, "I care about you!"

To this, Craig spins around, and our bodies slam into each other. "I didn't ask you to!" he shouts, shoving me off of him, "I never asked you to get involved!"

He turns into his geometry classroom, leaving me in the hallway. I know that I can't follow him; it would just make more of a scene than we already have, and people at Park High School always talk.

But this is just the reality check I need to realize that it can't be my solely my job to take care of Craig, and I pull out my cellphone, tapping "Laura Tucker" into my contact search.


	8. CH 8, Craig Tucker: Just Me

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading. I would also like to add that this work is not pro mia in anyway, whatsoever. If you personally are struggling, please feel free to contact me at any time and I will be happy to direct you to support resources.**

**The internet at my work is shot, so during off hours pretty much all I have to do is write-expect a lot of updates!**

* * *

><p><strong>Craig's POV:<strong>

Everything has gone to complete shit.

Clyde is so deep into my business he's practically swimming in it. At school he's been breathing down my neck, and he berates me so hard with calls and texts that it's hard to feel any different at home.

_This is all so fucking dumb._ I think angrily as I scribble brief, ambiguous answers to the questions on a lit. quiz for a book I never even finished. _I don't want his help._

Clyde probably thinks he knows what he's doing. Clyde always thinks he knows what he's doing. I hate that about him. I can't stand being told what to do or what to think.

He may be my friend but not for a second does he know what's going on in my head. Those aren't the sort of things I share anymore. He may know that I still love my Red Racer bed sheets or that I cried when Stripe died, but I don't even remember the last time I felt like he actually _understood_ me.

All he does is talk about sports—and drama—and girls. Three things I try desperately to avoid. Everything school related has always been a giant pain for me. I'm not a talker, I'm a fighter, and I always cared too much, especially as a kid. The problem was that I always cared about the wrong things—like not letting the teachers tell me what to do or letting other students push me around.

I didn't have so many fucking issues until Stan and his gang of assholes stepped into my life, and since then it's always felt like me against all four of them. For a while I had my own group, and we frankly weren't much nicer, but it was better than taking them on all on my own. Then when Clyde started spending more and more time with Stan and Kyle I kind of lost it. I know I hold a mean grudge.

Clyde used to tell me that it would be great if we could all just be friends, but I don't think he ever expected that to actually happen. It was all more for appearances sake—to make it look like he was trying—but Stan and everyone he spends his time with are just jackasses.

I know Clyde tries to look out for me, and that's sweet and all, but I don't know how to appreciate it anymore. I didn't mean to snap at him—I never mean to snap at him, but lately he just feels like another person to try and keep off my back.

He calls us best friends, but honestly, I don't feel that way. Clyde is more like my brother—if he was just my friend I would have kicked him to the curb a long time ago. There's no way in hell I would tolerate the shit he pulls from anyone else.

Clyde cares too much about reputation and sex and the stupid fucking baseball team. I honestly can't even relate—and I've tried for a long time. After last year, I couldn't take it anymore, and eventually just gave up pretending to know what he was talking about.

I hate physical contact, and he knows that. I've always been that way, but Clyde seems to think that I'll adjust is he touches me as much as possible. He doesn't understand that every time someone's fingers graze against me, it makes my skin crawl.

I don't like that my body takes up enough space _to_ be touched. It makes me want to curl into myself until I completely disappear. Sometimes, when I'm drunk and I get so dizzy that it feels like everything is brushing up against me anyway, I'm numb enough to let him hang off of me or get close under the sheets of Token's bed—and I know how fucking queer that sounds.

To be frank, I don't know what the hell I am, but I don't think that I feel the same way about it that everyone else seems to.

I definitely know that I'm not interested in girls.

But I don't think I'm interested in boys either.

Honestly, I've never been interested in anyone.

Sometimes I wish that there was someone who could make me actually want to hold hands. I could get used to feeling butterflies every time I talked to someone, or hoping someone would call, but that's as far as I ever get, and the closest I've ever gotten to that is Clyde.

At first, it scared me that I might be gay, but after a while it scared me more that I was feeling nothing.

To me, sex sounds about as fun as someone asking me to repeatedly shove my finger in their nose, or doing dishes with someone who is _really_ into dishes—completely unenjoyable.

I'm almost positive that the average amount of time my classmates spend thinking about how badly they want to have sex, I spend thinking about how I hope it isn't something I ever encounter.

Annie, who has been pining after me for as long as I can remember, once drunkenly dragged me into a room and demanded that I "have some fun with her." When I told her to fuck off, she spread a rumor around school just to protect her own ego that I liked dick.

But I don't think that I'm gay—I don't think that I'm anything—I'm just me.

Clyde tried his best to dispel the rumor, but honestly, I don't care. I don't think that Park High has any gay kids, and this way the girls leave me alone.

I'm so caught up in my own head that I don't notice when the bells rings or the teacher dismisses the class.

It's not until I hear a sharp "Craig!" that my head shoots up. Bebe is standing above me, looking impatient.

"Sorry." I murmur.

I've been catching rides with her as a method of avoiding Clyde. I know that he's furious about it, because he likes to talk about his day on the way home with someone, but I'm not up to entertaining his questions.

Bebe and I aren't friends, but we've been neighbors for a while. When she first got her car, I rode with her until Clyde got his.

"Let's get out of here," she urges me up and out of the classroom, "I don't want to be here one second more than I need to."

I'm not the only person that feels it. This school is a hell hole.

I grab my books and we climb into her shiny BMW. Bebe has the nicest car out of everyone I know.

Even though we aren't close, she can at least figure out when I'm not in the mood for a conversation—which frankly is almost always. She drops me off a few minutes later without a wave goodbye and speeds off down the street and into her own driveway.

As I walk up the front porch steps, I notice that my mom's car is parked in the driveway. I'm surprised—she's never home this early. I jingle the handle, and realizing that it's already unlocked, let myself in.

I hate talking to my parents right when I get home, mostly because I hate being asked about my day. I won't think about school unless I absolutely have to.

"Craig?" I hear my mother's voice as I'm trying to sneak up the stairs. So much for sneaking by unnoticed.

"What?" I ask irritably, stomping back down into the living room.

"I was wondering if I could talk to you—"

"I would love to," I cut her off, "But I have a lot of work and I need to get started."

I turn to exit the room, but before I can she adds, "Clyde called me while I was at work today."

My head snaps back around to her, "What?"

Of course he did. That's exactly the type of thing Clyde would do. He's never been able to keep anything to himself, and this wouldn't be any different.

"What did his fucking call you about?" I bite.

"He told me he was worried about you—now I want to handle this delicately, but—" She says softly.

"Don't worry," I say harshly, "I'm fine. Clyde is upset over nothing."

She pauses for a moment, staring at me.

"He told me he saw you throwing up."

Fucking fantastic.

I take a beat, fishing for an excuse, "I know, but I just wasn't feeling well. He's making a big deal out of nothing."

"Craig, he told me what's been happening."

"He has no fucking idea what's been happening! He's just making shit up!" I shout suddenly, letting my frustration get the better of me, "I'm fine, just leave it alone!"

"Craig." She says, and I can hear the sternness rising in her voice, "I don't know what to believe right now, but I know that Clyde isn't the type of boy to go around making things up. I think that it's best if I just keep my eye on things for a little while."

"No!" I'm starting to panic, and I know it's not helping me sound any more convincing.

"If what he's telling me is true, if you are bulimic, we need to—"

"Don't fucking call it that! Don't call it fucking anything!" I turn around, storming out of the room, "I'm not some god damn label! I'm just me!"


	9. Ch 9, Clyde Donovan: Coffee Mouth

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading. I would also like to add that this work is not pro mia in anyway, whatsoever. If you personally are struggling, please feel free to contact me at any time and I will be happy to direct you to support resources.**

* * *

><p><strong>Clyde's POV:<strong>

I'm worried that I did the wrong thing.

Craig is pissed and I know it, but he hasn't spoken to me in two days.

He started going home during lunch and not coming back until fifth period—which I know is likely my doing.

I'm glad that Laura talked to him, and from the looks of things is keeping an eye on him, but I'm still worried.

And when I worry, I talk.

Marsh asked me out for coffee after school on Friday, and I was eager to agree—anything to get my mind off of Craig. Now we're sitting at Harbucks, and I'm still a jittery mess.

Stan isn't stupid and he knows that something is up the minute we sit down, even as I dodge the subject with questions about him and Wendy.

"I'm over Wendy." Stan tells me firmly, "I told her this was the last time and honestly I'm too worn out to care anymore."

"Good." I affirm, "She was bad for you anyway."

This is how their relationship always goes though. Wendy starts to feel suffocated and they break it off. Stan tells himself and everyone else that he's finally getting over it, and then she pulls him back in. She's got him tied around her finger like no one I've ever seen.

"I don't want to talk about it though," he adds, looking a little uncomfortable, "She's coming back in a few months and I don't want her to think I was trash-talking her."

There he goes.

"What's been going on with you though?" Stan finally says. I knew the question was coming, but I had been hoping I could avoid it for a little longer at least.

"Oh, you know," I say nervously, "Not much."

He sips his coffee, and stares at me pryingly.

"I have some—stuff going on."

"Yeah." Stan says blankly, "There are some rumors."

"About what?" I sigh.

When are there not rumors?

"I'm gonna level with you man—" he begins, "—and you know I don't like Craig, but I'm not an idiot and neither is the rest of the student body.

"Could've fooled me." I say haughtily.

Stan snorts a laugh, "I know, right? But seriously, that little hissy fit he had, what was that bullshit about?"

"I don't know." I say tentatively, "It's complicated."

Stan looks at me quizzically, but remains silent.

"Dude, there's kind of a lot of shit going on and I know you and all your other friends hate Craig. I don't feel too awesome letting you in on this."

"I mean, Craig and I don't get along, but I don't hate him." Stan shrugs, leaning back in the booth, "Like, I know he's your friend and I feel kind of bad for ragging on him so much when we were kids, but he just can't let that shit go."

"He's my best friend," I correct, "I love him like, a lot."

"Okay calm down queermo," Stan teases, "I get it. You don't want this shit spread around school and you're worried that if you talk to me that's what will happen, but come on, I talk to you about Wendy all the time and I know that you're not going to turn around and call her. I'm probably more reliable than most of your friends—God knows Token's a loose rocket once he's had a few drinks and Tweek has a breakdown at the thought of keeping a secret."

I pause for a moment, considering his argument.

"Look," I say finally, "This is actually a big deal for once. You're not allowed to fucking belittle this shit."

"Hey man, no, I've got you."

"Okay." I take a shallow breath, "Alright, Craig has been acting fucking weird for a while, like, since this fall. He was being really flaky and noncommittal and it was starting to feel like I was practically forcing him to hang out with me."

"And what else is new?" Stan adds bitingly.

"Come on man." I give him a disgruntled look.

"You're right, I'm sorry."

"I kind of just let it go for a long time, but Tweek mentioned that he was concerned and so I promised to keep an eye on things. You remember Token's party last weekend?"

Stan nods.

"So, after I talked to you and Kyle I ran into Craig who was like, completely sober. Then he left and not even a half hour later Bebe came and found me and said that Craig was super drunk and throwing up in the downstairs bathroom—"

"So he drinks too much. Who doesn't?"

"No," I say, frustrated, "Let me finish. He wasn't drunk at all, he was just throwing up."

"How do you know?" Stan eyes me questioningly.

"I know you haven't spent a lot of time with Craig while he's drunk, but he gets really—sweet" I reveal cautiously, "He's way more relaxed and open, I mean, we used to sleep in the same bed all the time at the end of the night, and he was even okay with cuddling and stuff."

Stan smirks a little, "You're such a fucking gaywad."

"Yeah yeah." I roll my eyes, "But listen, like I said, Craig wasn't drunk. He was just throwing up."

"Why would he do that?"

"That's what I was wondering, so I started kind of watching him. He got really irritated and weird about it, but I was just worried. Then, on Monday, he didn't bring a lunch to school and because I was keeping an eye on him I asked him to come with me to that corner store we all go to."

"Swan Mart?"

"Yeah that one." I confirm, "Anyway, I gave him the rest of my chips and he was fucking weird about it. Like, super resistant, and I knew he was hungry because like I said before, he didn't have any lunch. He didn't say a word to me afterwards, and as soon as class started he grabbed the hall pass and took off. I don't know why but I got really fucking nervous and I went too. Our teacher looked so pissed. When I got out into the hall I saw him going into that bathroom. I followed him, which I realize now was kind of fucked up, but I just got so nervous. I was really quiet, but when I went in and I heard him gagging I sort of freaked out. I yelled and told him to come out. He got really scared. Some jackass kid went and told a teacher about us."

"I know," Stan says, unfazed.

I give him a confused look.

"I told you there were rumors." He shrugs.

Suddenly, I start to get nervous. I feel really not okay about this conversation, especially with Stan.

"Cool it." He says reassuringly when I don't continue, "It was just some stupid, unreal shit about Dick Sucker finally coming out to you. Most of us knew in a heartbeat that wasn't what actually happened. Just forget about it. So do you think he was doing it on purpose? Throwing up his food, I mean."

I nod slowly.

"So he's bulimic." Stan says bluntly.

"Yeah, I mean, maybe." I'm surprised at how quickly he pieced everything together.

"Dude." He eyes me, the look on his face growing serious, "That fucking sucks."

"God I know." I sigh, putting my head in my hands.

"Are we the only people who know?"

I shake my head, "I told his mom on Wednesday."

"Shit. That's serious. But then again, this is pretty serious. Do you know if it's been going on a long time?"

"I have no idea." I admit, "He won't talk to me about it at all. That's what you guys all saw us fighting about earlier this week."

"Doing that shit can kill you. Does he know that?" Stan blurts out. I can't believe that he's actually concerned.

"I don't know, I mean—" I pause, "I don't know if he's really thinking about it. How do you know so much about this?"

Stan cocks his head backwards, "I just pay attention man. I have an older sister. She has friends."

"I don't have any idea what to do." I confess, "He probably feels like I completely stabbed him in the back by telling Laura."

"Maybe." Stan says, taking another swig of his coffee, "But I think you did the right thing."


	10. CH 10, Craig Tucker: In and Out

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading. I would also like to add that this work is not pro mia in anyway, whatsoever. If you personally are struggling, please feel free to contact me at any time and I will be happy to direct you to support resources.**

**Thank you so much for the lovely reviews everyone! You're all so supportive and sweet.**

* * *

><p><strong>Craig's POV:<strong>

Five days ago, I would have gone home after school. I would have locked myself in the kitchen pantry or gone to the gym with Clyde. I would have been able to spend an ounce of time by myself.

Now, instead, I'm sitting on a doctor's examination table twiddling my fucking thumbs.

My mom insisted that we check in with some god damn healthcare professional because I won't talk to her. She says that if we can't figure out some sort of agreement at home, I'm going to need to keep coming back.

The doctor weighed me on a type of scale that I've never seen before—one that has a disconnected screen so I can't see what it says.

I don't think I've ever been so stressed out.

When I asked what it said he very quickly replied that I shouldn't be seeing how much I weigh, and that any scales in our house would have to be removed. He says that it might be easier for me to focus on something else if I find a new hobby. Fuck a new hobby. My weight _is_ my hobby.

I snapped at him to fuck off and that it was my body, and my mom told me that if I didn't cut it out she'd have to sign me as an inpatient. It shut me up, but I still have no intention of letting some guy I don't even know tell me what was wrong with me and how to fix it. I'm almost an adult and honestly, I've known that what I've been doing isn't okay for a while. If it was something I was capable of fixing, I would have done it by now.

I just want everyone to leave me alone.

Luckily, the doctor told her to not be hasty, and went right to tying off my arm to take a blood sample. He missed my vein a few times, leaving me with a nasty, growing bruise, and then handed the vial off to his assistant, finally taking my mother out into the hallway.

So now I've been waiting, naked apart from a fucking hospital gown, for them to come back and tell me I can leave.

They tried to take my blood pressure and listen to my heart beat, but I couldn't sit still enough. The stethoscope was too cold and I didn't feel okay showing my bare chest. I gave him a flat no, and eventually he gave up and listened through the scratchy gown fabric and my back. He said we would try again next time because it just was too hard for him to hear my heart clearly.

When my mother comes back into my room, she looks upset, like she's been crying. The doctor follows her, and explains to me directly that the potassium levels in my blood are "_extremely low, and that confirms the need for concern." _

That's probably why my mom looks so sad. She was still holding onto some small sliver of hope that Clyde had been wrong, and the lie that I was trying so adamantly to cover up wasn't, in fact, a lie.

The doctor tells me that he's referring me to a specialist down in Denver that should be more equipped to help me with my "condition." He wants us to see her twice a week, and ignoring the fact that I'm only a few feet away tells my mom that she made a good call in starting to bring me home for lunch.

Doctors are always so condescending, I can't fucking stand it. They're all the same—acting like I'm just some child who can't take care of themselves. This is my shitty body, and I'm the only one who's going to be making the calls here—not some bloodwork lab.

I won't let them bring me home for lunch every day, and they can't make me drive all the way to Denver once a week in order to see some specialist. I know seeing a doctor won't help me at all. I don't want it to help me at all. I'm a mess, I don't deserve help.

More than anything, it's too obvious. The last thing I need is kids from school getting involved in my personal life. Token and Tweek are probably weirded out already, and they're both so perceptive that it won't take very long for them to figure out what's going on.

"_That is, if Clyde hasn't already told them."_ I think bitterly.

I know that they've been my friends for a long time, but I really haven't been connecting with either of them lately. I could never handle people breathing down my neck, so instead I generally chose to just steer completely clear. Token and Tweek have always been so wrapped up in themselves that I didn't have to worry about them snooping around, but the only reason I've let Clyde stick around for so long is because he's stubborn, and cares so much more than everyone else.

I've always felt bad telling him that he was getting too close, and that I needed some space. He was such a sensitive kid. I think that's why our parents had us start hanging out in the first place. They wanted us to balance each other out. I can't help but wonder how things might be different if our relationship had turned out like they planned.

We support each other, that's for sure, but the job always felt a little uneven.

Maybe that's because Clyde struggles with things like sports and math, and I struggle with my life.


	11. CH 11, Clyde Donovan: Pry

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading. I would also like to add that this work is not pro mia in anyway, whatsoever. If you personally are struggling, please feel free to contact me at any time and I will be happy to direct you to support resources.**

**Sorry about the wait everyone! The holidays were insane for me. Expect more updates this week!**

* * *

><p><strong>Clyde's POV:<strong>

"Yo Clyde." Comes the familiar voice, as I swing my locker door shut to reveal Stan's stooped figure.

Stan has been hanging around a lot lately, bouncing his problems off of me like some sort of punching bag. I guess our conversation at the coffee house opened the way for a whole new slew of topics.

"What are you doing for lunch?" He asks nonchalantly.

Today is the day that I promised myself I would go see Craig. What kind of best friend lets himself be ignored for a whole week?

"I was planning on going to Craig's."

"Huh," Stan snorts, obviously a little irritated that I won't be sticking around, "You're like, going home with him?"

"Well, I was kind of just planning on going." I admit, "He and I really need to talk but I don't think he will let us if I give him a choice."

"Good luck making any progress on that asshole." He grumbles.

"Hey man, lay off." I throw him an irritated look, "Come outside and smoke with me before I go."

"Sorry, sorry." Stan mutters, following me down the hallway and out the heavy school doors "I just think it's bullshit that you feel like this is your responsibility, you know?"

"Well who else's responsibility would it be?"

"I don't know, his parents? I mean, we're all just kids, you know?" Stan takes out a fresh pack and pulls the first cigarette, placing it between his teeth, "What do we really know?"

I shrug. Stan has a point, and as much as I want to be able to help Craig, the point of my visit today is more for my own sanity. I feel selfish, but I want to know if he's doing alright. I haven't heard any updates, and there's a possibility that's he's fine and I just completely jumped the gun. I know it's unlikely, but I still have my fingers crossed this was all somehow just a huge misunderstanding.

"This isn't the type of thing that goes away just because you're really nice or really supportive," Stan says, lighting up, "Look, I just don't want to see you get so wrapped up in this that it starts to eat at you. That happened to my mom. Pretty much the entire school knows that my dad is an alcoholic, so I won't pretend like it's some big secret, but I've watched my mom try to fix him for my whole life. We can tell him that we love him and that we want him to be healthy but it doesn't matter. We can't just wish his problems away. It's so much deeper than that. People have to fix themselves."

"You don't think I can help at all?"

The idea is heartbreaking.

"I don't know, maybe Craig's the type of person who just needs someone to talk it out with or whatever, but this is all a lot bigger than you. Maybe you can help him figure out why he feels the way he does, but I wouldn't try to go a lot past that. You're no professional and you can't make him do anything—you're just his friend."

"But that means a lot." I say bitterly, taking a drag off my cigarette. I hate that Craig tells me not to smoke.

"All I'm saying is that sometimes people need to see that there will be consequences. I think that's why my dad never even makes an effort to change. He knows none of us will ever leave him because we've all tried and it just doesn't work. My parents get a divorce and then they just end up back together before the end of the month. Shelly's off at college, but as long as my parents live in the same house it's where she'll always come back to. Same for me. If we could actually stick it out and say goodbye to him I think he would change, but—"

"What?" I spit out, cutting Stan off, "So you just want me to tell him to knock it off or I'll ditch him!?"

"Well, no, but it's not a bad idea to tell him that you can't support what he's doing to his body and that you'll be there if he decides to make a change. It's encouragement." Stan says, guarded.

"That's a terrible idea!" I shoot him down immediately, "I would never just abandon him like that!"

"Fuck dude, calm down."

"No!" I throw my cigarette to the ground and stamp it out, "Shit, God I'm sorry. I'm just really fucking worried. I need to go. I'll call you later."

I head for the parking lot without waiting for Stan to respond. I should be more thankful. He's really been the only one to support me in all of this.

I pop the trunk on my 4Runner and toss my bag in the back. The drive to Craig's is short but stressful. I know he doesn't want to see me, and showing up at his front door isn't going to make that any better.

When I arrive, I park right out front and give the door a light tap. Once, and then twice. After a moment, Laura answers, looking haggard.

"Hello." I say sheepishly.

"Oh, hello Clyde. I haven't seen you around recently." She gives me a brief smile, "Now isn't really a—good time."

"I know, and I'm sorry." I apologize, looking at my shoes "I just wanted to make sure Craig was alright."

"Well—" she glances backwards into the house, "Maybe you could come in and say hello. I do need to be getting back to work a little early today and I'm afraid I might not have time to drive him back to school. I was just going to call in to excuse him, but maybe you could take him back for me?"

"Sure." I say awkwardly, knowing that probably won't be how it goes under even the best circumstances.

"Come in," she says, stepping back, "He's in the kitchen."

When I enter the kitchen, Craig is halfheartedly pushing bits of food around on a plate, looking miserable.

"Hey man." I say softly, and Craig's head shoots up.

We're both silent for a moment, before he lets out a biting, "What?"

"I was worried about you," I admit, "I wanted to see how you were doing."

I take a step forward and pull a chair out from the dining table, but he puts a hand up.

"Don't sit down. Did my mom let you in? How does it fucking look like I'm doing? I don't fucking want you here."

"Will you talk to me? About what's going on?" I persist, ignoring him and sitting down anyway.

"Yeah well thanks to you I'm sitting at home every day being watched like a god damn child."

"I did the right thing. Was I supposed to just let you kill yourself?"

Craig stares at me bitterly.

"You would have died if I had just let you keep at it." I reiterate.

"You know what? No. Fuck you." He snaps, pushing his plate of what looks like a turkey sandwich away, "Get the hell out of my house."

"I'm not leaving." I say firmly, standing my ground "I'm your ride back to school."

Craig stares at me for a moment, before grabbing his plate and going to the sink.

"Hey!" I shoot out of my seat, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Fuck off." He doesn't even look at me, but proceeds to dump the rest of his food down the garbage disposal.

"Aren't you supposed to eat that?" I rush over, grabbing for the plate, but as he whips his hand away from mine it slips to the floor with a _crack_.

Looking at the pieces on the floor, I stammer out an apology and Craig goes glassy eyed.

"Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Shit." He says, his sleeve whisking up over his eyes, "God fucking damnit—it's okay."

We stand together silently for a moment before I let out a whisper.

"Everyone is worried about you."

"I know." He says, face still covered, "I know and I don't want them to be. I just want everyone to leave me alone."

"I'm not going to leave you alone." I say softly, putting my hand on his shoulder.

"God, I know you won't." Craig chokes out, biting his lip.

"Why are you doing it?"

"I don't know, I don't fucking know Clyde." He admits in a gravelly voice, "But I can't stop."

"Yes you can." I say reassuringly.

"I can't!" he shouts suddenly, bursting into tears, "I don't want to! Jesus Christ I feel so disgusting. My mom watches everything I eat and it's so fucking much. I feel like I weigh a million pounds. It's not fair. I try so hard to be okay Clyde and I'm just not! I'm not, alright? I'm never going to be. I don't know how to feel okay! I can't remember the last time I did."

Craig lets out a heaving sob before adding, "I have this to look forward to for the rest of my fucking life. I just want to die!"

For a moment, I don't know how to respond, and we stand in silence.

"I know." I say finally.

"You know?" Craig glances up at me, sniffing.

"I mean, I know you feel shitty. I've known that for a long time, I just hoped I was wrong. I know that it's not fair and that you're not okay. But you're going to _be_ okay." I explain, "Maybe not right now, but we're all going to make sure that you _don't_ have to deal with this your whole life. I'm not going to let you give up on yourself."

"Okay." Craig says shakily, clearly not convinced.

"I'm serious. We'll fix it. I love you." I blurt out.

Craig gives me a gross look, but wipes his eyes and after a moment replies, "God, I love you too."


	12. CH 12, Craig Tucker: Bundles

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading. I would also like to add that this work is not pro mia in anyway, whatsoever. If you personally are struggling, please feel free to contact me at any time and I will be happy to direct you to support resources.**

**Again, thank you for all the lovely reviews and encouragement everyone!**

* * *

><p><strong>Craig's POV:<strong>

Clyde and I didn't end up going back to school that Monday, but instead took our time lazing around my living room watching old movies on my family's VCR. We've never owned a DVD player.

I didn't mean to cry. Damnit. I never mean to cry. I barely ever break down like that and when I do it's because of Clyde. Well, not because of Clyde. Fuck, I don't know. The things he says and does turn my insides to mush. I fucking hate it. I'm not a crier. I'm a fighter.

_I'm tough._

Tears are so fucking chastised in my family. One time when I was about twelve my uncle, Skeeter, slapped the shit out of me in a Walgreens for being the intolerable prick I always am, and even though looking back I know that I totally fucking deserved it, I was shocked and embarrassed as hell. _"You gonna go and turn on the waterworks?"_ he asked, shoving me into the back seat of his SUV as I stifled sobs through my coat sleeves. I think Ruby was more upset with me than he was—something about a 'tarnished reputation'. She and I didn't speak for almost two weeks. I was too humiliated to even say anything to my parents. The next time something like that happened I held my ground, and went home with a black eye but a smile on my face. Needless to say my mom doesn't really let our uncle hang around us anymore.

Then came the panic attacks. When those happen I feel like I fucking dissociate, and when I finally come down I barely even understand what's happened. In the middle of it—that's not who I am. I'm Craig Tucker, that kid with authority issues. A trouble maker—the one all the parents tell their kids to watch out for. Bully. I sent Kyle Broflovski home with bruises on his chest all throughout elementary and middle school.

I'm not the boy who trips out so hard before the final of a class he's failing that he fucking hyperventilates.

I am though. That is me. He just doesn't feel like me.

I don't know why my body does this to itself.

I swear to fucking god that I'm tough.

Clyde and just about everyone else says that a panic attack is never my fault, but I hate excuses. Anything that guys like Cartman can give me crap over is not information that I want out in the open. The doctor I see once a month to represcribe me some anxiety drug I use called Klonopin told me they're common and should subside overtime, but it makes me feel like such a pussy to have to take medication just to _calm the fuck down._

Sometimes if I'm really upset or we're drunk Clyde holds my hand, like he's doing now. He tucked us both under my mother's heavy knit blanket that she keeps draped over the couch and put on the old, live action version of Robin Hood. The quality is terrible on my shitty box television, but it gets the job done.

I think the reason I get so overly emotional around Clyde is just his personality rubbing off on me. When I'm upset or angry he doesn't tell me to just 'buck up' and 'just get over it' like everyone else does. He crosses his legs and puts my head in his lap, running his fingers through my hair until I calm down. He tells me I'm okay and I'll be okay and that he's there for me, like the huge fucking gaywad he is.

Jesus Christ. He told me he loves me for fucks sake. I told him that I love him too, but I don't know, I feel weird. I don't love him like I love Ruby, or Stripe, which I know is how he means it.

_Stop it._ I try to firmly box away the feeling. _Just stop it._

I love him in a way that makes me want him around even when I'm falling apart, and that's saying something. It's so stupid, but I get excited when I see him in the hall at school, and when he meets me between periods. _I love that he fucking makes an effort on me even though I'm such a goddamn loser._ I love him in a way that makes me want him all the time.

But I still don't want him _like that_.

_Damnit. _I squeeze my eyes shut.

That's what I don't understand. It'd be one thing if I just wanted to stick my dick in his ass because then at least _I'd know something about myself._ I could call myself gay and fucking embrace it. But I don't, and I'm not. I don't want in his pants, and I don't want him in mine, but Jesus Christ I love holding his stupid, fucking, sweaty hand.

_Is that just how best friends feel?_

"Clyde?" I say, lifting my head off the arm of the couch.

"Yeah?"

"You have shit taste in movies." I bite out.

"Yeah well you have fantastic taste in friends, okay?" He snaps back, playfully, "Namely me."

Clyde is so lucky. He's so self-assured. Yeah, he's a weird dude, but he never has worry about whether or not people like him. Everyone likes Clyde. He's so damn outgoing and friendly that it's impossible not to. The true extrovert.

Not to mention that Clyde doesn't have _any_ problems, or at least not for long. He's so good at letting things roll off his back. Clyde _doesn't_ get anxious and he _doesn't _have panic attacks. _He doesn't fucking throw up._ He's fantastic at baseball and lately he's been in such good shape that it's fucking bullshit. Even when he wasn't in shape he didn't care. He didn't care until he realized that it might cost him a college education. I think that's what I'm most jealous of. He just didn't fucking care. I care too much about fucking every single little thing.

Clyde doesn't seem to give a shit about anything involving himself. All he ever does is give. I don't know how he does it. I know that sometimes people take advantage of his generosity, but even that he doesn't seem to mind.

If I feel like someone is using me, that's it. We're over. I don't give away anything but middle fingers.

"Clyde." I say again.

This time he pauses the movie.

"Are you even watching?" He asks, teasing.

"Sorry, not really." I admit, "I just—"

He eyes me questioningly.

"How do you deal with it?" I mutter, sheepishly, tangling my body with the wool blanket, "With people always wanting things from you."

"Oh." He pauses, "Well—"

"I mean, don't you ever feel like you're being walked all over?" I add, bitterly.

"Not really." Clyde says flatly, "I don't think about it that way. If I have something to offer that someone wants, why wouldn't I give it to them?"

"But don't you feel like you're being used?"

I always feel like Clyde is being used—by me and Stan and just about everyone else. I hate that I can include myself in that, but it's the truth. Clyde is my emotional crutch. He's easy and nice and I have this weird fucking desire to squeeze my body in bed next to his, drunk or not.

"No, I mean, I think sometimes people _feel_ like they're using me, but that's silly." He smiles, patting me firmly on the thigh, in the way that _just friends_ do, "I just think people shouldn't be fake about it when they need something from me. They don't owe me anything just because I do them a favor. Everyone acts like they do. It's stupid."

Clyde is perfect. I don't fucking understand it, but he is. He's perfect, and I'm so jealous. I'm so jealous that I ache. He's okay, and I'm not, and I don't know why. It's not fucking fair.

He's not confused. He doesn't ever wonder if maybe he's _in love with me_. Even if he did, he wouldn't be questioning it on the basis of whether or not he fucking _wants to have sex with me_, because he gave that shit up to Bebe last year at her New Year's party. At least he'd know what to fucking do with himself.

Clyde's always there, and fine, and telling everyone else they'll be fine too. I can't even pretend to remember the last time I was emotionally capable of supporting someone else. I'm such a fucking waste of space.

"Craig." Clyde tucks his legs underneath himself, "You know it's okay for you to ask me for help."

My lips pucker as he says this. I don't want his help. I fucking hate that I need him. I hate that he has so much control over me. I hate that he doesn't even know. I don't want his fucking perfect prissy playboy advice. I just want him to exist, preferably in close proximity to me. I don't know if that counts as help, but it doesn't feel like it.

All I can do is pretend it's me who's in control.

Clyde gives me a small smile, the one that makes me feel like a fucking child, and I scoff—hunkering down into the couch once again, and he presses play, swinging his arm over my body.

My skin prickles.


	13. CH 13, Clyde Donovan: Mixers

**South Park © Matt and Trey.**

**General Warning:**

**This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading. I would also like to add that this work is not pro mia in anyway, whatsoever. If you personally are struggling, please feel free to contact me at any time and I will be happy to direct you to support sources.**

**Sorry for the long wait everyone! The winter holidays are always a crazy time for me. I literally just stayed up all night long writing this chapter, what the heck is wrong with me.**

* * *

><p><strong>Clyde's POV:<strong>

Craig is sweet.

I don't give a damn what he or anyone else says – that boy is sweet down to the fucking core. He's just prickly on the outside. A big, stupid pineapple.

I'm not going to trick myself into believing that he's okay, because I know he's not. I've spent too much time pretending that nothing was going on and that everything was alright. That didn't get either of us very far.

I'm having a hard time admitting to myself just how much it shook me when Craig told me he wanted to die. That's not something that anyone would let happen, and that's exactly what I kept telling myself as I tucked us both into the couch and we skipped our afternoon classes.

_He didn't mean it. He wouldn't do that. _I repeat to myself as I dart through the cold night air from the car to my front door.

The whole situation is so unfair. Craig is a good kid, even if he is a little rough around the edges. He shouldn't have to walk through fucking fire and I shouldn't have to quench the flames.

I stayed at the Tucker's watching old movies until it was well after dark. Laura came home late and asked us how the rest of our day had gone. I lied through my teeth and said that we had been a little late back to class so she might still get an absence call from the school office.

Digging in my coat pocket, I find my house key and clumsily jam it into the door lock. My dad isn't home. He isn't usually because we run our own the shoe shop down on Main Street, and if my dad isn't there, we aren't making money. When he's not selling shoes, he's usually over spending his evenings with Mr. and Ms. Tweak.

It isn't until I pull out my cellphone to give him a call and find out where he is that I notice I have several missed calls from Stan. There's no message, so I hit the "call back" button as I fumble for the light switch in my house's breezeway.

"Hello?" The receiver on the other end picks up as I'm making my way up the stairs.

"Hey man," I say warmly, "Sorry I missed you; I had a full afternoon. What's going on?"

"Hey! I noticed you weren't around for 5th period, and I wanted to check in and see how things went for you today, but there's actually a party over at Bebe's tonight that I'm about to head out the door for! You want to tag along?" he replies enthusiastically.

"Uh—" frankly, I'm a little taken aback by the invitation. It's a Monday night, and most parents aren't up for their kids hosting a kickback in the middle of the week, "At Bebe's?"

"Yeah," Stan repeats, "Her dad's on a business trip and her mom's visiting her aunt down in California or something. She has the whole house to herself, so she invited a bunch of people over at school today."

For a brief moment I'm concerned what my dad would think, before I remember that he's most likely out with Mr. Tweak downing coffee and Bailey's.

"You should come man; it'll be more fun with you there."

With that, I'm sold. There's nothing like someone being honest about appreciating your company. It gets me every time.

Stan tells me that he'll pick me up in the next twenty minutes. I take the break to call and invite Craig, but he doesn't pick up and I don't bother calling twice. Craig is hard enough to get out of the house for parties at Token's, and Token is one of our best friends.

I never make it up to my room, and trudge back down the stairs, slipping into my sneakers that I kicked off in the hallway. I haven't had time for dinner, but I pull a piece of bread from the pantry and smother it in honey just in time to hear two loud, impatient honks from out on the street.

I shove the food in my mouth and almost forget to lock the front door on the way out. Maybe I should be more cautious with how I spend my weeknights, but I can't help it. I love parties.

Sliding easily into the front passenger's seat of Stan's car, I take in the feel of the new seats. I've seen his Camaro in the school parking lot, with Kyle waiting around for a ride home after classes, but I haven't yet had the chance to admire the interior.

When I finally look over to Stan, I can tell through the dim street light that he's smirking.

"You like my ride?" He says sarcastically, slapping his hand down on the black leather armrest, "I call her Kiss Ass, you know, to remind me of why my dad bought her for me."

I chuckle uncomfortably, but I know I shouldn't. Stan's situation with his dad is really sad. He makes me feel lucky, actually, even if my dad is usually busy. I don't know what either of us would have done if we hadn't had each other for support when my mom passed away.

"At least you get something sweet out of it, right?" I offer.

"Totally." He says tartly, "He gave me this beauty right after he got so drunk one night that he told me I was a mistake. What a loser. I really get a sweet deal."

I wince at the harshness in his voice, and realize immediately that I made a mistake. As Stan turns to give me a very obviously forced smile, I take it as my leave to drop the subject entirely.

"So – Bebe's?" I shrug awkwardly, averting my eyes.

"Yeah." He turns the key in the ignition, pulling away from the curb, and after a moment seems back to his regular self as he asks me how my day has been.

"It's been alright. I don't know." I say shakily, "Everything that's been going with Craig really stresses me out to be totally frank, but we talked, and I think we made up, so that's good I guess."

"That is good. It's progress at least. Did you talk about why he's been having such a rough time?"

"Only a little." I admit, "I don't think he really knows to be honest."

"I guess that's not surprising, I doubt most people know why they use one coping method or another."

"Probably not." I sigh, leaning my head against the car window, "I wish that you could just talk to him. You're so much more eloquent than me. I barely know what I'm talking about."

Stan lets out a short laugh, "Is Craig even aware that I know what's going on?"

"No." I say weakly, "And he shouldn't know. It would freak him out that I've been talking to you about his personal issues."

"I kind of figured, but I'm sure what you told him was fine." He takes his right hand off the steering wheel, giving my thigh a few comforting pats.

"I really just said that I knew he was hurting, and that I knew it wasn't fair, but that I also knew he'd be okay and I would make sure to stick through it with him."

Stan nods, but gives me a skeptical look.

"That sounds fine, but make sure you're not promising him that you'll be the one fixing him, because you won't be. He can only fix himself."

"I know that." I say, scowling back at him.

"I'm just saying. Take care of yourself too, you know?"

We pull to a stop in front of the Stevens' home, and Stan brings our conversation to an end with a stern look, a squeeze of my thigh, and popping out the car door.

It frustrates me that Stan treats me like he knows so much more than me about helping people who are struggling.

It frustrates me even more that he probably does.

When we reach the door, I let Stan do the knocking. I hope that Bebe isn't the one who answers. I don't want to nor do I plan on dealing with her directly. I haven't been to a party she's thrown since last New Year's, because of a string of somewhat unfortunate misunderstandings.

December 31st, half an hour past midnight, Bebe god damn Stevens led me up the stairs to her bedroom. We were going to fuck. We were supposed to fuck. Bebe, in all her New Year's excitement, had sprawled herself out so nicely on her red satin sheets and I tried so hard to focus on the task at hand. I couldn't do it though.

Not even an hour prior I had helped a plastered, vomiting Craig up the stairs and into bed in the next room. I had tried to crawl under the sheets with him those thirty minutes before the ball dropped, but Bebe and the rest of the party had insisted I come back down and finish the night with them. I spent the next hour drinking to forget that I was worried, and in the end, instead of losing my virginity I cried drunkenly and confused into Bebe's arms. I told her it was because I couldn't stop thinking about Craig.

The next morning, I woke up next to Bebe with all my clothes still on. When she heard footsteps in the hallway, she quickly stripped her own top off and feigned embarrassment as Token cracked the door to ask where he could find some Ibuprofen. She told me that if we kept spending time together people would wonder why we weren't going steady, and told everyone else that I had fucked her silly. I nodded plainly, too hung over to process, and she never asked me about Craig, who woke up two hours later, heard about me and Bebe, and had stormed home almost immediately.

I still don't know what that whole night was about.

Just my luck, Bebe is the one who opens the door.

"Come in!" She cheers, clearly a little drunk already.

I slink past her, but she catches me with a light tap on the back and mouths a silent hello with a twirl of her fingers. I offer an awkward smile in return, before rushing to follow Stan.

Stan heads straight to the kitchen to pour us both a drink, and I wonder briefly if he ever worries about becoming an alcoholic himself. I've heard that the addiction can be genetic.

I imagine that he must police himself pretty strictly.

He hands me a rum and coke, which he warns might be a little stronger than usual, and I'm happy to see that he seems more relaxed now than when he was with Wendy. The two have been broken up for nearly three weeks now, and that's longer than it's ever been.

Not wanting to reopen the wound, I don't mention her, but as if almost on cue Stan blurts out, "She called me today."

"Who? Wendy?" I ask.

"Yeah," Stan smiles, downing a hefty portion of his drink, "She wanted to get back together. Not now, but when she gets back. You know what I said?"

"What?" I humor him, expecting the usual answer.

"I said no! I told her I was fucking done!"

Now this comes as a surprise to me, and I'm happy to see Stan feel so proud of himself.

"Wow, way to go man! That's great!"

"God I know, it was the first time I've ever called the shots like that since she left. I felt so empowered. Like I could do anything I wanted."

"You probably could."

To this Stan gives me a toothy grin and maybe even blushes lightly before grabbing a bottle of rum off the table and saying "Celebratory shots to standing up for myself?"

I laugh and nod. Anything to get me through a night of awkward glances and catty whispers from Bebe's friends who are all wondering _"how on earth I could sleep with Bebe and then just ditch her like that, and_ _how tough I must think I am to show up at her party and rub it in her face."_

After four shots each in quick succession, plus our original drinks, Stan and I are pretty far gone. I cut myself off, and Stan makes himself another mixer, before we finally head out to the living room to socialize.

Now in competition with a Subwoofer speaker that someone has brought to the party, I dance sloppily for a few measures, while Stan does the typical "I can't dance" move of bobbing his head and holding his drink up. We realize quickly as we shout to each other over the music that we made the wrong decision and that really what we want to be doing is talking.

We push our way past Heidi and a few other girls from class I recognize, who all give me dirty looks, into the much less crowded stairwell.

"Dude," Stan stops me halfway up the stairs, placing his hand against my chest and, "I want—I want to apologize for earlier—in the car."

"What?" I grin stupidly, having no idea what he's talking about.

"No—no I mean it." He closes his eyes, as if he's trying hard to focus, "I totally snapped at you about my car, and—and that's really not fair. How should you know how I got it or why it makes me so mad? I—I didn't even tell you!"

"Oh that? Th—that's okay!" I place my hand on his shoulder comfortingly, "I was lame about it—really insensitive! I sh—should know better."

"No way." Stan still hasn't opened his eyes, "I act like it's no big deal, like, all the time, but really—really it sucks so much."

"I know man, shit, I know."

"I mean, I feel like my dad doesn't fucking ap—appreciate me at all, you know? He acts like he's sorry and then he just treats me like worthless garbage."

"I th—I think he loves you," I smile, "He just has a problem and he doesn't know how to show that he loves you because of th—that problem. He's like Craig, Craig doesn't know how to show me that he loves me."

"You think Craig loves you?" Stan shrugs his shoulder questioningly, and I feel my chest tighten. We're getting into dangerous territory, by my inhibitions are too low to put a stop to it.

"Yeah—I mean—I think so?" I admit, "I hope so, because I—I love him a lot."

There's a pause in our conversation, and I'm too drunk to know why, but I feel like I should be nervous.

"Do you 'love him' love him?" Stan asks suddenly.

I don't know what to say to that, so instead I say something worse.

"I didn't sleep with Bebe you know."

"Really?" Stan's eyes shoot open.

"Uh—" I stammer, regretting saying anything almost immediately.

"Why did you guys tell everyone you did?"

"I didn't," I correct him, "That was her. I've never—ever actually said a word about it."

"Why would you do that? Why didn't you sleep with her? Do you not like her?" The look in Stan's eyes now is so prying I want to get up and run back to the living room and the crowd of people.

"No!" I whisper defensively, "I just couldn't. It wasn't her. It's none of that, it's j—just—"

"It's okay." Stan cuts me off, "I get it."

"You do?" I eye him warily.

"Yeah. I really—actually—completely do. Thank you for sharing that with me."

I look down at my shoes uncomfortably. I want to go home.

"I didn't tell you all of what I told Wendy." Stan says in what I assume is an attempt to distract me from our drunken conversation that I don't understand.

"What did you tell her?" I ask.

"I told her that I think I might like someone new." He mutters shyly.

"Really? Who's—" I begin, but I don't get to finish the thought.

Because Stan has pressed his lips firmly against mine. Stan fucking Marsh. Quarterback of the football team Stan Marsh. Dated the same girl on and off for eight fucking years Stan Marsh. Hangs out with the school's biggest homophobe Stan Marsh.

Kissing me on the god damn staircase of the house of the girl I lied about sleeping with Stan Marsh.

I don't know if this is what I want.

I don't know if this is what I meant.

He tastes like alcohol, and the thought of more rum makes me feel ill.

I think this is what I meant.

But I don't think this is right.

Still, this is the closest I've felt in a long time.

So I kiss him back.


End file.
